The Painter and His Muse
by Everion Radnor
Summary: Ivan Braginski worshipped Beauty and Alfred was the mortal face of it.


Ivan Braginski was an artist. But, he drew only one thing.  
Alfred.  
He painted him and immortalized him in watercolors and flowery words. He sketched his eyes and carved his form into marble.  
Ivan Braginski worshipped Beauty and Alfred was the mortal face of it.  
He was content with the friendship they had, the smiles they exchanged. Alfred offered his company and in return Ivan offered his mind. He would drink coffee and Ivan would capture his movement with deft pencil strokes.  
"Why do you draw me?" he questioned him one day.  
"You're drawable, that's why."  
Alfred laughed. "That's not a word, Vanya."  
Again with the diminutives. Fine. Two could play at this game.  
"Well, English begs, borrows and steals from other languages. It changes all the time, _Alfie._"  
"Oi!"  
"You asked for it."  
They sat in silence after that, smiling quietly to themselves.

Alfred came running up to him one day, cradling a ball of gray fur.  
"Vanya, look!"  
"It's a cat." He said this while blowing warm air on his fingertips.  
"Can we keep it? I'll feed it every day, I promise!"  
Just like that, a gray kitten started appearing alongside Alfred in his pictures.

"These portraits are magnificent! Your muse is so handsome!" gushed the collector. She gestured enthusiastically at one of Alfred reclining on the sofa and playing with Koshka-they named him Koshka, what else was there? Mittens wasn't a manly name- and batting at his nose.  
At the far end of the corridor, Alfred, in a suit, laughed at Ivan's plight silently. He sent a dirty look in the blonde man's direction. The exhibition was his idea and while it was fun and a great way to earn money, he didn't like the way they gawked at Alfred. Alfred was his.  
It was then, watching Alfred laugh with the others, that Ivan began to wish for something more than companionship.  
He nearly choked on his champagne when Alfred came up and hugged him tightly, cowlick tickling his nose. "Here's to the man of the hour," Alfred announced, hand draped around Ivan's shoulders, "The master painter, Ivan Braginski!"  
After the smiles and meaningless words, Ivan ran to the bathroom and leant his head against the mirror, staring into his eyes.

Alfred went through an infinite number of girls and guys. Ivan disapproved of this but never asked questions. He told him why eventually.  
"They aren't enough." He rubbed his eyes after pushing up his glasses. "They never ever are."  
_Would I be enough, Alfred?_  
And so passed many such days, of pencil shavings and watercolors.  
Alfred stumbled in with the ever-present chill and slid down to the floor after closing Ivan's door. He buried his face in his arms.  
Ivan kneeled down in front of him and ran soothing fingers through his chilled hair. The city was so cold.  
"Ivan…he, he left me-e…"  
"Who? Alfred, who?"  
Alfred only shook his head, and after a brief moment's hesitation, launched himself into the painter's arms.  
Shocked, he slowly pulled him closer and wrapped his scarf around him.  
"Oh, Vanya…why? Why do people leave?" His hot tears soaked through his shirt and warmed his chest.  
Ivan thought of his sisters, lost to him forever after his decision to leave his homeland.  
"Perhaps, solynshenko, they leave because they become disenchanted with us. They begin to hate what they loved."  
For a minute, there was only the sound of harsh, choked breathing. Then Alfred, his muse, his friend, lifted his head and stared into Ivan's eyes, throat arched like a swan's, bleeding and broken-hearted and yet, able to trust and asked a question that would forever after define Ivan's life.  
"Vanya…Vanya. C-Can you love me?"  
He sat up and grabbed Ivan's shoulders. "Ivan Braginski. Can. You. Love. Me."  
The question hit Ivan like a blunt force object, stunning him.  
"Ivan. You're an artist. You see the beauty of things. Of people. You draw me all the time. That-that must mean I'm beautiful, somehow. Can you love me then?"  
Ivan did not reply. He was too busy trying to formulate a suitable response.  
Alfred groaned and let his head fall onto the other man's collarbone. Ivan simply stared off into space, lost in his thoughts.  
"I should leave."  
The statement snapped Ivan out of his fugue. "What?" His arms tightened around the man who had asked him to love him.  
"I'm being very emotional. I'm sorry. I shouldn't impose my troubles on you." He made to get up, only to have Ivan pull him down again.  
"Five years, Alfred. Five years of adoring you and not knowing whether I was adored back. Of watching you and wishing I could always hold you. Alfred, I love you. And I don't know why. You come to me after losing what you thought was real. Why?"  
Alfred bit his bottom lip.  
"I-I didn't know how I felt until I gave you Koshka. All I knew was that you were- that you were like my rock. You didn't let me drift away. I've never wanted to kiss you or touch you. You are too pure for that. I only cared about what happened to you. It took me that stint with _him_ to figure out what you meant to me." He reached up and caressed Ivan's cheek with the back of his hand.  
"And even now, I'm not sure why I asked an angel to love someone like me."  
"Alfred…will you stay?"  
"Here?"  
He nodded, a smile gracing his lips. Ivan leaned forward until their heads touched.

They argued often. Over many things. Clothes. Space. Time. But one or the other always came back to apologize. There were no fireworks when they held each other, only warmth and comfort and the feel of being there. Home.

Ivan taught Alfred how to draw. He taught him how to cook.

Koshka had five kittens.

Alfred broke his arm and was constantly fussed over by Ivan. This continued until he snapped at him.  
Ivan broke a vase. Kissed Alfred's tears away.

Life went on.

Alfred was fire and Ivan, ice. He soothed the rage Alfred felt at the world and Alfred melted the cold around his heart.  
There were no declarations of undying love. Only the unspoken saying, _I'll be there as long as you are" _binding their little fingers like the red thread of fate.

They worked, ate, slept and made love. He painted Alfred, sprawled out in bed, heavy and soft with sleep. Alfred took photographs of Ivan and the things he did.  
"I love capturing everything you do, Vanya."  
In answer, he kissed him and brushed his thumb over his eyes.

But, in the real world, such stories of painters and their muses do not last very long.  
"Oh, really?" screamed Alfred. "I'm of no use to you? What happened to all those-"  
"Shut up! You don't know what it's like! You never knew what it was like!"  
The cat fled through the fire escape and the careful dreams built around them began to crumble.

"I asked you, if you could love me," said Alfred quietly. "And did you?"  
Ivan was not in the mood to accept this.  
"I never said anything about love, you blind fool. I only asked you to stay! I never, ever loved you. You're too selfish and obsessive. You have your head in the clouds. You notice none but yourself!"  
Alfred had his eyes closed.  
"I-I…"  
"Just leave. I can't stand the sight of you right now."  
The door closed with a quiet _snick_ behind him.

In the real world, nothing ever ends like it should.

In the real world, people die and can't be brought back to life.

In the real world, painters find that their muses can vanish in the blink of an eye.

That was how Alfred left him. Covered in blood and staring up at him with eyes of agony, begging him to make it stop. There were people, asking questions, flashing lights and sharp piercing sounds. But all of that was nothing, mere background noise, to Alfred.

He'd always occupied his attention like that.

And so, the painter lost his only muse.


End file.
